


Seams That Hold the Waking World

by agent_izhyper



Series: merrily, merrily, (not so merrily) life is but a dream [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Derek Feels, and a lot of it for Derek, mindfuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:23:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1800295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_izhyper/pseuds/agent_izhyper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And, just like that, as though someone had been playing with the pause/play button in control of his senses, everything hit him full force.</p><p>Derek inhaled sharply as the loud chatter from downstairs filled his ears, the clatter and bustle in the kitchen, the living room, the yard. And the <em>smells</em>, the food (<em>home-cooked meal</em>), that earthy scent – the unmistakable feel of <em>pack</em>.</p><p>No. Of family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seams That Hold the Waking World

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, like I said at the end of the last one, here we see how Derek's being affected most of all.
> 
> (Previous instalments in the series are two one-shots, one from Stiles' POV and one of Scott's.)

Derek had dealt with a number of injuries over the years. Mostly it was part and parcel with being a werewolf, especially a Hale with a lot of land that others liked to try to encroach on occasionally.

Never mind that he wasn’t even Alpha any more. He still had his own blood rights to it – he just wondered when every other supernatural being out there would realise that, as well as the fact that leeching off the power of Beacon Hills was a sure-fire way to grab the attention of the local Alpha. (A True Alpha, too, at that.) And Scott still having relatively low knowledge on most of the supernatural world meant that Derek had to, more often than not, help him take lead.

He didn’t mind. Scott was a natural; Derek was glad to help, even when said help resulted in him coming out of a fight with the worse injuries of them all. Exhibit A: Derek being the one to get hit with that druid’s attack until Scott fought her off him while Stiles scattered and broke the set-up of her spell.

Magic was always nasty to fight.

Derek gritted his teeth as he finally made it up to his loft. He grabbed a clean shirt before collapsing gratefully on his bed, hand enclosed around the wound. The shirt he was wearing had been ruined, torn at the shoulder and soaked with blood, so he ripped it through completely and used the cleaner strips to wipe away the blood.

It was deep, the wound – that much he could tell. The blood-flow had been heavy initially but had now slowed down. But… Derek narrowed his eyes at it, wary. It wasn’t quite healing like it should be. Only wounds inflicted by an Alpha took a longer time to heal. It should be closing, but it wasn’t.

Biting back a pained groan when he got up, Derek made quick work of washing the wound out and wrapping it with clean cloth before he put on the new shirt. It figured that an injury by magic would take its toll on him, even as a werewolf. He certainly wasn’t infallible – even less so since he’d given up Alpha status to save Cora’s life (a feat he would never regret, of course).

So Derek settled into his bed, carefully rolling off his injured side, and resolutely went to sleep. It’ll probably be healed by morning.

If not, then… well. _Then_ , he’ll worry.

* * *

He woke with a jolt and a disoriented tumble off his bed. The sheets got tangled between his legs and the fight to free them was a jerky one, with his head swimming and spinning until the distinct slam of his bedroom door hitting the wall snapped him out of it. His head snapped up, his limbs stilled, and everything seemed to quieten and calm down for the few seconds it took his sister to cackle at the sight of him and say cheekily, “Stop being a lazy-ass, Der-Der, it’s already noon. Up you get!” before she bounded back down the stairs.

And, just like that, as though someone had been playing with the pause/play button in control of his senses, everything hit him full force.

Derek inhaled sharply as the loud chatter from downstairs filled his ears, the clatter and bustle in the kitchen, the living room, the yard. And the _smells_ , the food ( _home-cooked meal_ ), that earthy scent – the unmistakable feel of _pack_.

No. Of family.

Derek shot out a hand to his dresser, using it to pull himself up as he kicked aside the bedsheets. His shoulder ached – he must have fallen on it – and he rubbed at it vaguely. His head, though; his head was _spinning_ , his senses going haywire, like someone had finetuned everything in his body, and oh God that was his mom laughing down there.

_What the fuck?_

“Derek!”

Cora. Cora had come in, Cora had told him to get up, right. That was right. She never had the decency to knock, always flitting from one room to the next.

“Yeah!” he called back, voice slightly hoarse. “I’m coming.” He blinked down at his bed, confused for a second, before shaking his head and marching to the bathroom.

The hot water felt oddly nice and as he shut his eyes against the spray, his hand rubbed against his shoulder again, chasing away the phantom pain – and his eyes flew open as he imagined his hand coming away red and wet and sticky. But, but no, no it was fine, there was nothing. He frowned down at his shoulder, the skin unmarred. Still, the vague image of blood where it was not wouldn’t leave him.

A dream. It was from a weird dream. That was it.

Why, then, when he walked into the kitchen ten minutes later to his mom teaching Laura something, to Cora teasing their two brothers while Dad watched on in amusement, to Uncle Peter fondly rubbing his wife’s pregnant belly, did Derek feel as though he was wading through deep water all of a sudden? And why did he smell smoke? Why couldn’t he move his feet, why was Laura’s concerned voice calling his name being drowned by rushing white noise, why-

He sucked in a sharp breath and was out of the house before anyone could move. Fresh air, that was he needed. He had to clear his head. He had to move, to shift and _run_. He had to get rid of that pesky _ache_.

* * *

It wasn’t until he was watching the Sheriff’s kid climb into his blue jeep that he realised in his disoriented state he’d let slip something about Stiles’ heartbeat being off. _Wow, Derek_ , he admonished himself. He turned, made sure no-one was around, and shifted into full beta form so he could take off for the woods.

His shirt felt warm against his chest where Stiles had grabbed onto it.

Hopefully, he had been too out of it from his panic attack to pick up on Derek’s slip. He’d already made the mistake of not paying any attention at all to his surroundings, almost causing a freaking crash; he didn’t need to be a source of confusion to the kid on top of that.

After half an hour of loping in between the trees and thick undergrowth he was so familiar with, Derek came to a stop underneath a large tree. He sighed and let his head fall back against the trunk with a dull _thunk_ , eyes trailing the high branches above blocking most of the sky from sight.

He was right, the run had been a good idea, refreshing. Although, he thought with a wince as he pulled out his phone, maybe he shouldn’t have just bolted out of the house like that.

Sure enough, he had a handful of missed calls and messages. He hesitated, tapped out a quick assurance to his mom and sent it before he got any misgivings. She’d understand.

Thing was, this wasn’t the first time he’d freaked out on them. But it had never hit him this hard before.

Derek screwed his eyes shut, let his claws grow out and dug them into the earth. Before, he’d anticipate a bad day a mile off. It was the dreams – it was always the dreams. Always, _her_ mocking face, that faked sweetness melting off for a look that was nothing short of feral and predatory. And, in his dreams, he didn’t back out fast enough. He didn’t back out _at all_. He let her lead him on, toy with him, wrap him around her little finger – all of his stupid, naïve, little self.

And then he’d watch as she got to them; as she burned down everything and everyone he loved; as she tore apart the very foundations of his _life_.

And she laughed. Always, always, that sweet lilting laugh he thought he’d _fallen_ for.

Jerking back with a gasp at the sharp pain in his palms, Derek’s eyes flew open to scan his surroundings automatically, his body tensed and ready to spring up. There was nothing; it was clear. Letting his breath out slowly, though unsteadily, he brought his hands into his lap, uncurling fists that hid the torn skin and blood from his own claws digging in too hard. He grimaced, let the wounds heal before wiping his hands off on his pants.

“Way to keep a handle on things,” he muttered.

If only he could shake off his unease as easily as his body repaired itself.

* * *

He took his time getting back home, avoided the busier streets and just let the distant sounds and smells of normal everyday life blank out his mind for him. Sometimes, things got too overwhelming. Of course, he was a lot better than he had been for a while back there, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still hit with a metaphorical gut-punch of the what-ifs and self-blame every once in a while.

His mind stayed blissfully clear until he reached the house; at the edge of the clearing, he paused at a passing thought and frowned, reeling it back in.

He hadn’t had dreams or triggered memories of Kate for months.

The dream last night wasn’t about that.

“Derek!”

His older sister’s cry snapped him back and he looked up. Laura came up to him, eyes shining with concern until Derek cocked an eyebrow at her – a wordless reassurance in the familiar snarky expression between the siblings.

Laura half rolled her eyes and slung an arm over his shoulders, reeling him towards the house. “Alright, Der-bear, say no more. Come on, there are brownies in the oven.”

“If they’re _your_ brownies, I’d rather they stay there,” he said with a wry uptick of his mouth.

“Ha ha. How about I stuff _you_ in there as well, you great big comedian.”

Derek just smirked. By the time they reached the porch, he realised the house must have cleared out while he was gone. He could hear Cora up in her room, and Peter on the phone somewhere towards the back, and that was it. (That was it?) Derek frowned hard at the panicky feeling beginning to spread from deep in his chest – he glanced to the side and Laura raised both eyebrows at him while she opened the door, a silent “ _what?_ ”, only to drop the expression in favour of a dismayed one as she turned her head inwards and sniffed.

And the smell of smoke and something burnt meshed with his sister’s scent, so close, and it was all Derek could do not to fall to his knees and throw up because Laura’s face was swimming before his eyes – _pale and cold and that lifeless stare nonono_ – the fire was spreading now, his house was covered in flames-

 He fell back against the porch railing with a cry; sharp stabbing pain pierced through his shoulder; Derek sucked in a quick breath – it was too much, all too much – and then just… screwed his eyes shut against it all.

Laura’s voice faded in the deafening white noise.

* * *

The room was _cold_ , colder than it should be, and Derek felt a tremor run through him when he woke suddenly.

He didn’t really know what it was that woke him – it was barely past dawn – the loft was empty, his instinctive check had confirmed it. He sighed, let his eyes slip shut again as he rubbed his face wearily and flipped back over under the covers.

An action which he regretted immediately when pain flared up in his shoulder, hot and burning. Derek cursed and sat up, leaning on his elbow from the uninjured side, and breathed in and out harshly through gritted teeth for a couple seconds until he could open his eyes and take a look at the cloth.

…Which was no more red than it had been last night.

Thoroughly confused, Derek sat up properly and carefully pulled the makeshift bandages away… only to find himself staring at unblemished skin; the only signs of his injury being the dried blood coating his shoulder. Eyebrows drawing in sharply, he experimentally moved his arm, rotated the previously-hurt shoulder in both directions.

Nothing. Not even a twinge.

He was right – it had healed, just a little slower. Which begged the question – why did he feel like that was not at all the issue here?

**Author's Note:**

> ...wow that was a mess.
> 
> I hope you guys are following because the plot of this fic is a mess of scattered ideas overlapping each other in my head, but it somehow makes sense to me, but I don't know how it translates into writing. So, y'know, I guess confusion is guaranteed until they figure out what's happening themselves, but overall... Not too bad, I hope?
> 
> Feedback is appreciated :3
> 
> (Btw, feel free to point out any typos or mistakes you come across, I'm too tired to read over it right now.)


End file.
